Tell me, Friend...

Tell me, friend, for I've forgot,
When died the season of the child?

All around, our adult hell,
Where we've assembled walls
Of somber disbelief and
Stacked the semblances of lives
Amongst the dusty shadows
of our halls.

No place is there for tender thought
Nor deep-hued dell to shelter
Those whose Muse is sought in
Philosophic isolation.
Artistes of asceticism, they
Know it's futile all too well.

Once, as fresh-eyed children, we
Saw as soaring eagles do
All the truth in colours bright.
Taking day for day & night for night,
Never drawing pictures of it
Ne'er knowing the time would come
When we'd such simple acceptance
rue.